My Dear Umbrella
by Monstrous Mango
Summary: The adventures of Mycroft Holmes and his beloved umbrella.
1. 1

Mycroft wiped the water from his umbrella's folds with exaggerated care. Together they'd been caught in the rain. The rain had not been too harsh nor had it been something to scoff at. Regardless, he kept Mycroft dry. Mycroft was grateful for the protection. In thanks, he cleaned him.

Mycroft's umbrella was one of the few umbrellas that did not like the rain. The rain, he thought, was unclean and had no business dropping itself down upon his elegant fabric. The rain was rude and filthy. He would have no problem with the rain if it did not choose to pour down upon him and Mycroft every chance it got. Yet, it did. He had no choice but to spread himself out to protect his lifelong companion Mycroft Holmes from its seemingly endless attack.

Mycroft knew this. In fact, he was very familiar with the umbrella's hatred of the rain as he complained about it every time it rained. "Perhaps I should get another umbrella," he would say when he was in one of his sulks. "Maybe I should get an umbrella who doesn't mind the rain." When he said this the umbrella would become distant, at these times it was almost as if he were an inanimate object. Almost immediately Mycroft would regret his unkind words. He would fetch a fresh towel and clean him.

This was almost exactly how events had transpired before Mycroft had begun his drying of the umbrella once again. Almost. The rain through which they had traveled was really only a light drizzle. The umbrella had opened without complaint when they'd stepped into it. What upset him that night had little to do with the rain. It was the leaning. Mycroft had the most annoying habit of leaning on his umbrella. He leaned on his umbrella for much the same reason that his brother turned up his coat collar. He thought it made him look cool. And maybe it did but that did not make it any less painful of an experience for the umbrella. It was not physically painful, he could not feel pain in that way, but it did hurt his pride to be used like as if he were a walking stick. He was now scuffed at his end, a constant reminder of Mycroft's disregard for his feelings.

Mycroft always made his excuses. He'd forgotten, or he'd thought the ground was smooth enough for the umbrella to rest upon. Tonight he claimed he was distracted. The meeting they'd attended was a very important one. It was important that he make an impression on Dr. Watson. He claimed his umbrella made all the difference. While this was probably true, the umbrella still did not appreciate being thrust nose down into the cold, damp pavement and leaned upon by a man who was clearly not keeping to his diet.

"I am so very sorry, Pooky," he whispered to his umbrella. It was silly but once the umbrella heard this all was forgiven. As always, he would forgive his queen of all wrong doings.


	2. 2

A heeled foot stood on the umbrella. It jerked away almost immediately, leaving behind a dusty foot print. A clean and polished hand snatched up the umbrella from the floor and returned it to his former position of leaning against the wall. The feet stood perfectly still. Their owner was most likely trying not to vandalize anymore of her employer's possessions whilst waiting for him.

She would not have to wait too long, as the man she waited for walked in only moments later. Mycroft burst through the door clad in one of his well-fitted suits. He'd picked a red tie that morning. It suited him well, the umbrella thought. The umbrella was happy to see him. It was lonely inside the office with no one but the woman for company. She'd paid him no attention save for the few seconds it took for her to knock him over, step on him, and put him back in his place. The rest of her time waiting for Mycroft was spent with her eyes glued to the phone in her hands. Mycroft's arrival was a welcome change to the lonely office.

Mycroft, it appeared, did not share his delight in the moment. After taking one look at the smudge on the umbrella's black fabric and another at the women's shoes, the expression on his face changed from one of boredom to anger. He quickly replaced his look of anger to something a bit more pleasant. A tight smile took form on Mycroft's face.

"I no longer require your assistance," he said politely, making the woman even more confused than she normally was. "Please leave."

"I'm sorry, sir. Are you sure?" she asked, a mixture of fear of confusion dancing in her otherwise dull, grey eyes.

"Quite sure. Please leave," he repeated with less kindness than before.

The woman gave a curt nod and hastily made her way to the door, her head bowed. As soon as she was through, he closed the door behind her. As if he had no time to spare, he rushed to lift the umbrella up in his hands and sit down in the chair behind his desk. From one of the small desk drawers to his right he plucked a small, blue satin cloth and gently rubbed at the horrid woman's footprint until there was no sign it had ever been. Sensing the question he had but could not vocalize, Mycroft answered; "not to worry, my dear. She won't be coming here again."

The umbrella was content with this, as was Mycroft. She was not exactly the most competent of his employees. Sure she was mind-blowingly talented with her phone – she could text an email on a phone faster than anyone he'd ever met – but she was heartbreakingly dimwitted, not to mention her tremendously rude behavior towards the umbrella. Stepping on the umbrella, even by accident, was an inexcusable and unforgivable offense in both the umbrella and Mycroft's eyes. She did not even possess the decency to wipe her filth from him. No, neither Mycroft nor his umbrella would be sorry to see her go.


	3. 3

Mycroft held his umbrella's handle loosely in his hands, twiddling it this way and that. The umbrella's nose nuzzled against the carpet's soft surface. It was a nice change from the hardwood floors and the concrete of the outdoors that the umbrella usually had to face. The dust from the recent explosion was slightly offputting but it was pleasant nonetheless. The umbrella gave a silent inward sigh in content of the sensation.

It wasn't raining. It had not rained since last Tuesday. There was no reason for Mycroft to have an umbrella with him. Only for the sake of presentation did he have it with him. The umbrella also suspected its presence was needed for moral support but said nothing of it.

Mycroft and his brother sat opposite each other, the air tense between them with the unpleasant sound of Sherlock's violin plucking. They had discussed something of the missile plans that had stressed Mycroft for the past day or so. Or rather, more accurately put, Mycroft had presented the problem of the missing plans while Sherlock had made a show of ignoring him and fiddled with his instrument.

The stocky man that Mycroft had met with a while back entered the room, breathless. Worry was written largely on the man's face.

"John," Sherlock said, verbally acknowledging his presence. Yes. John. That was his name. The umbrella remembered it now.

They prattled on for a few seconds, losing the umbrella's attention to feeling of the nice carpet and the nice hand caressing its handle. If the dust and Sherlock and John were gone, and they were in the more familiar setting of Mycroft's home, or even the office, the umbrella might have described the moment as a heavenly one, so lovely were the hands and the carpet.

Only when Mycroft voice sounded again did the umbrella attempt to focus on the conversation once more. Sherlock, being the pain in the nose that he always was, refused Mycroft's offer.

"How's the diet?" Mycroft's grip tightened around the umbrella. This was a sore subject. His love of cake and his desire for a slimmer figure fought constantly.

"Fine," he responded forcefully, lying. Love trumps desire. The umbrella knew from cake frosting that was sometimes transferred from Mycroft's hands to the umbrella, and from the increased pressure it felt when Mycroft would lean on it for support. The umbrella wished Mycroft's love for it, and the knowledge that an increase in weight meant an increase in discomfort for the umbrella, would fuel his desire to lose weight, but that was not the case. And it did not look like it would be any time soon. The truth of this, Sherlock must have spotted in his four pound weight gain.

"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?" The umbrella's mind had wondered again. Now, it appeared, they were talking of the case again.

"No, no, no, no. I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time. Not with the Korean elections," he said, gazing intently upon his umbrella. A thrill of excitement ran through the umbrella. The Korean elections had been held several months ago.

"Well, you don't need to know about that do you?" he continued. "Besides, with a case like this, it requires leg work." Mycroft was notoriously lazy. There were few things that would tempt him out of airmchair for very long. Another cause of Mycroft's ever increasing weight.

Apparently John had been sleeping on a sofa and it had been fine and the umbrella really couldn't care less. The umbrella wondered when their wedding, Sherlock and John's, would be. Mycroft had mentioned something about a wedding. Or had he been eating a wedding cake? The umbrella wasn't sure. Its memory wasn't the best.

They soon left, Mycroft dragging his umbrella at his side, to the sound of Sherlock scraping away at his violen. He was childish and annoying, but he was one of the few that Mycroft rose from his armchair for. The umbrella was glad to be going. He could only listen to that violen for so long. Besides, serious work had to be done for those Korean elections.


End file.
